


The Passenger

by keir



Series: Shance Week 2016 [2]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Amputation Appreciation, Frottage, Hand Jobs, M/M, Shance Week 2016, Shance Week 2016: Confidence/Insecurity, Texan Shiro
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-13
Updated: 2016-11-13
Packaged: 2018-08-30 19:49:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8546818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keir/pseuds/keir
Summary: Shiro is rolling on another long haul, only a couple days left till he reaches the drop-off point. His semi purrs along the winding highways under the hot Texan sun with nothing but fields as far as the eye can see.
He does a double take when he sees someone walking on the side of the road, almost unable to believe that a person is hiking along the shoulder of the highway out in the middle of nowhere. His good conscience makes him pull over, the semi rolling to a rumbling halt fifteen feet or so behind the stranger.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Finally! Ahhh, I'm so excited to be able to share this piece! It's my shance week baby, haha. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.
> 
> My inspiration songs for this piece were Kaleo's "Automobile" for the entire theme and "Can't Go On Without You" for the dancing scene. You don't have to listen to them to understand the story, but they give a general feel.

Shiro is rolling on another long haul, only a couple days left till he reaches the drop-off point. His semi purrs along the winding highways under the hot Texan sun with nothing but fields as far as the eye can see.

He does a double take when he sees someone walking on the side of the road, almost unable to believe that a person is hiking along the shoulder of the highway out in the middle of nowhere. His good conscience makes him pull over, the semi rolling to a rumbling halt fifteen feet or so behind the stranger.

All Shiro can see is miles of deep bronze skin covered by only a pair of daisy duke shorts, the curve of the stranger's cheeks just peeking from below the frayed edges, and a small black backpack slung over a shoulder. The stranger's shoes are worn out sandals, clearly not meant for the kind of travel they've been through.

Then the stranger turns and Shiro feels the indecent part of him stir (or stir further, because the sight of all that skin woke the beast). The guy is all sharp angles, cheekbones that could cut, short brown hair plastered to his skin with sweat. He turns and faces the semi with a wave and Shiro can't help but notice those cute dark brown nipples. The stranger wanders over to the passenger side, unhurried, then the door pops open. The other man stares up at him, a slender hand holding the edge of the door. “Need a ride?” Shiro asks.

The stranger looks him up and down slowly, eyes wandering until he seems to have had his fill; they barely spent a moment on Shiro's prosthetic, and for that he's grateful. That's when the stranger shoots Shiro an absolutely devious and depraved smile and says, “I'd be happy to take any ride you have to offer, big man.”

Shiro shifts in his seat as that response excites him. “Hop in,” he says, accent suddenly thicker than usual. The stranger grins and grabs hold of the bar, hoisting himself up into the cab with the grace of someone who's done this a few times in their life. “Where are you headed?” Shiro asks as the other man wiggles that delectable little tush against the passenger seat, settling in.

“Anywhere you're willing to take me…” There's a pause and an expectant look.

“Shiro,” he says, politely offering up his hand to shake; it just so happens to be his prosthetic. The man eyes it for a moment before grinning and sliding his fingers against fabricated digits and a palm that Shiro can't feel, rubbing it almost sensually.

“The name's Lance,” the passenger says with a cocky grin.

Shiro nods and waits to pull his hand back a moment longer than he should. “Nice to meet you, Lance.”

“I like the way you say my name. It's got a nice sound to it with that hot accent.” Lance smiles mischievously and Shiro feels his pants tighten. His passenger swipes his fingers over his own collarbone, dragging them through the sweat beaded on his skin. “Sorry about getting your seat all dirty.” His smile says he's not sorry at all.

Shiro blindly reaches back and hooks a towel. “Sorry it's a little dirty, but you can use it to wipe down.”

Lance takes the towel and lifts it up to his face, inhaling as he pats his skin dry and then exhaling in a rush. “I don't mind. I love the musky scent of a man.”

Shiro doesn't know what to say to that, so he puts his eyes back on the road ahead, double checks his side, and then pulls the semi back onto the highway. It's hard to keep his attention on driving when Lance is rubbing that towel all over his body, a towel Shiro has had against his own naked self after a shower. Did the part that touched Lance's face also touch his crotch at some point? Shiro blushes at the dirty thought and shifts into the next gear, the truck rumbling as it picks up speed.

“Do you mind?” Lance doesn't wait for a response; he reaches over and cranks the air conditioning up, turning the vents to point directly at him. Arching into them, he sighs happily.

Shiro can't help but notice brown nipples perking up and something of his perks up more at the sight. His gaze shifts between the desert wanderer he picked up and the road stretching out before them. Eventually Lance leans back, sprawling in his seat, and shoots Shiro another smile. “You pick up strangers often?”

Shiro shrugs. “Once or twice, when the weather was bad enough. But never someone quite like you.”

“Oh, you've definitely never met someone like me,” Lance says before reaching out and grabbing Shiro high up on his thigh.

The semi weaves over the yellow line and Shiro corrects it as fast as he can. Lance laughs with delight. “A little tense, aren't you?”

“Somethin’ like that,” Shiro mutters out of the side of his mouth.

“I can help you with that.” The hand rides up, pinky finger flirting with the chub in his jeans.

“Whoa!” Shiro pushes Lance's hand away, eyes furiously glued to the road as his body goes on alert, totally game for what his passenger is wanting. “Let's not do that. I kinda wanna reach my next stop in one piece.” Shiro expects some angry words or sullen pouting, but Lance just takes his hand back and smiles. “So where did you say you were headed?”

“I didn't,” Lance counters. “What about you? Where are you going?”

“Headed to Prairie City for the night, then on to Granite Falls at first light.”

“Sounds good to me,” Lance says agreeably. He leans back in his seat, but he's only quiet for a moment before he turns his body toward Shiro, tucking his legs up under him. “So how did that happen?”

Shiro is under no illusion as to what Lance is referring to. He glances down at his prosthetic, the hand he can't feel resting on the stick. Maybe he stares at it longer than he thought because a soft voice adds, “You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to.”

He glances over once he hits a straight stretch of road. Lance has his head resting on the seat, his neck long and gorgeous. His eyes are sapphire blue, Shiro realizes, like an oasis sparkling in the desert. “I was a Marine.”

“Oorah, baby!” Lance says.

The edge of Shiro’s mouth quirks up. “Oorah.” His knuckles tighten on the wheel. “I took a hit trying to protect a couple of my men. The arm couldn't be saved. I hit my head on the way down; the hair just grew in white after that.” His jaw clenches at the muddled memory of shouting and gunfire, of being dragged across the hot ground beneath an even hotter sun. Of countless hours in the hospital for multiple surgeries to dig out the shrapnel, and for the grueling hours of physical therapy afterward. “I couldn't return to service after that. That's when I took all my money and invested in this rig.” He runs his hand lovingly over the steering wheel. “I just couldn't settle down in one place after losing my arm; I need to be on the move. I can't explain it; my family thought I was crazy.”

“I understand that feeling,” Lance says. “A place can be paradise one moment and then the next you're just itching to run away. You've got places to go, things to see, people to meet. You realize that you've only got so much time on this earth and you want to do as much as you can with it.”

Shiro glances over at Lance, looking as long as he dares and probably beyond what's safe. His passenger is staring back at him, eyes hooded and face so open. Shiro has never had someone explain what he feels in his gut so well, understand him so quickly and easily after his world was torn apart. “Yes,” he says, the concept as simple as that, his eyes returning back forward. 

“I feel the same way too. They call that having the soul of a wanderer,” Lance says. Shiro glances over and smiles, his first real smile, and Lance grins back. “So, you got any snacks in this rig of yours?” Shiro chuckles and Lance hums appreciatively. “I like the sound of that. You should do it more often.”

The lascivious, silky tone of his passenger's voice ties Shiro's gut up in knots. “There's snacks just in the back there, in the cupboard on your left. Help yourself.” Lance does just that without hesitation, rooting around in the back and returning with a drink and some chips. He munches away happily, and noisily, and regales Shiro with tales of his own wanderings.

They eat up the miles that way, Lance never seeming to run out of stories or the breath to tell them with. Sometimes he turns a song up on the radio and sings along. Shiro is surprised by how happy he feels, by how he's not bothered by the constant sound outside of the engine rumbling and the hum of tires against asphalt, or dusty bare feet kicked up on his dash and snack debris littering his cabin in the wake of Lance's voracious appetite.

The sun is setting, as harsh as ever in the Texas summertime, hanging on the horizon they're heading toward. Shiro looks over and his breath is taken away. Lance has turned to molten gold under the sunset’s light, his radiance burning bright, skin shining and beautiful. His passenger catches him looking, and Shiro looks away only to make sure he's still on the road before looking back. Lance bites his lip and Shiro watches as slender fingers mischievously trail up a glowing bronze thigh. Lance opens his mouth to speak…

“Breaker, breaker. Whitelock, you out there?”

Shiro's eyes revert back to the road as he reaches for his radio. “Ten-four,” he says, trying to hide the mild irritation from his voice at the interruption. He looks over to see Lance grinning from ear to ear. “What?”

“Your handle is Whitelock? That's cute.”

Shiro huffs out an exasperated breath as the voice on the radio asks, “What's your twenty, Whitelock?”

“I'm about one hundred out from Prairie City,” Shiro responds.

“Well, seems we're headed the same way. You wanna get together tonight at the Sunset Lounge and have a nightcap for old times’ sake?”

Shiro waits a moment too long to reply and Lance asks, “What's the Sunset Lounge?” His passenger has perked up, is leaning toward him with bright eyes like a magpie that's found something shiny.

“A dive bar that truckers like to visit.” It's not personally to Shiro's taste; he'd rather sit out and sip a beer under the stars. He lifts his radio back to his lips. “I think that's gonna be a negati--”

The radio is suddenly gone, easily wrested from his unsuspecting grip. Lance grins as he lifts it to his mouth. “Cancel that. We'll be there with bells and whistles on.”

There's a moment of silence and then the stranger says, “And who might you be?”

Lance smirks and wiggles in his seat, getting comfortable with his feet on the dash again. His eyes sparkle with mirth as he replies, “I'm Whitelock’s new copilot.”

There's a booming laugh that makes Shiro wince as it makes his radio go static. “Well, I look forward to meeting you tonight, then. Over and out!”

Lance grins as he twirls the radio's cord around his fingers. “You and me are gonna have some fun tonight, get you to loosen up.” Shiro wants to complain, but Lance is licking his bottom lip in a purely sinful manner and suddenly he can't wait to get into Prairie City.

\-----

They roll in around nine at night, Shiro pulling the rig into the large gravel lot just off the highway that surrounds the Sunset Lounge, which was painted a bright orange at some point, but it's faded and chipped now, ugly as sin with rotting trim. Lance stretches and wriggles before they've even come to a full stop, digging in his backpack and putting on a shirt for the first time, though it's not much of one. It's a crop top in light blue with a drawing of palm trees on it, the arm holes dipping down to the middle of Lance's ribs. If he moves right, Shiro can see a peek of his brown nipples.

Lance looks over and smiles at Shiro in the darkness of the cab, raising his hands above his head and bowing his back in a stretch. “Let's go have some fun!” Then he opens the door and disappears, lithely sliding from view.

Shiro grimaces and then huffs in defeat, reaching back to snag his hat, putting it in place and jumping down from the cab. Lance saunters around the front of the rig, the sway of his hips mesmerizing, and he knows it by the smile he throws Shiro's way. “Nice hat, cowboy,” Lance says. Shiro dips his head and touches the brim in acknowledgment. “I'd love to see you in it and nothing else.”

Shiro almost chokes on his tongue and Lance laughs, the sound so loud in the growing night. His passenger grabs him by his flesh and blood arm, clinging tight and tugging him toward the entrance. “C’mon, cowboy; I'll let you buy me a drink.”

The smell of cigarette smoke hits them like a wall the moment they walk in the front door; the establishment is permeated with decades of exhalations. There are a few tables scattered haphazardly on the left side of the room with battered chairs, and a beat up dance floor on the right made of parquet patterned wood. The bar sits along the back wall, ill lit with more standing space than stools, the shelves behind with liquor bottles dusty. Christmas lights hang from the ceiling, throwing garish multi-colored light around the space. As Lance drags him farther inside, his bronze skin is mottled with it. There's something sour in the air, but Lance doesn't seem to mind; in fact, he seems giddy.

“You made it!”

Shiro can't help but smile as his old friend stands from the bar, all six feet of him, waving his arms excitedly. Apparently he's already started without them. Lance angles them toward the man without hesitation. Once they're within range, Shiro introduces them. “Lance, this is Burning Love, who you so graciously accepted an invite from earlier today.”

“And I am very grateful for that,” the man says. He's dressed in a white tank top and bright Hawaiian shirt patterned with hibiscus flowers, hair tied back in a short ponytail. Beads of sweat stand out on his brow; the bar is sweltering with no air conditioning, only a few fans turning almost lazily on the ceiling.

“‘Burning Love,’ huh? Dare I ask why?” Lance questions with a grin.

“Real name's Hunk,” the big man explains. “Y’know, like Elvis!” Hunk does a little hip shake, lip lifting as he tries to mimic the dead singer. “I'm just a Hunk of Burning Love!”

Shiro rolls his eyes as Lance laughs in delight. “I changed my mind, Shiro. Hunk here can buy me my first drink.”

Hunk beams and waves down the bartender. “And here I thought you just picked up some lot lizard,” Hunk tells Shiro, earning himself a sharp jab from the other truck driver's elbow. The girl behind the bar snaps her gum as she waits for an order. “Two Jack and Cokes for me and my friend here,” Hunk says, thumb pointing back at Shiro. “And for him…”

“A shot of spiced rum and a tequila sunrise,” Lance says.

Hunk laughs at his audacity for ordering two drinks, his smile broad as he leans back against the bar. “So what's your story, sweet thing? Where'd crotchety old Shiro find someone as cute as you?”

Shiro grimaces. “I'm not that old,” he mutters.

Lance's draws little swirls across the scarred bar with a long finger, leaning against it as he smiles. “Shiro saved me out in the desert. I owe him big time.” He bats his lashes at the man, who rubs at the back of his neck.

“I just gave you a ride,” Shiro says.

“And later I'll be returning the favor by taking you for one,” Lance says, voice husky and hip jutting out. Shiro blushes from head to boots as Hunk crows in delight, banging a huge fist on the bar.

Their drinks arrive and Hunk passes them out. “To new friends!” he shouts, clinking glasses. He and Shiro sip their drinks and Lance downs his shot, then picks up his other drink, lips wrapping around the straw as he sips at it.

“So, how did you become friends with old Whitelock here?” Lance asks as he stirs his drink.

“Me and him go some years back,” Hunk says. “We were rehab buddies.” He reaches down and pulls his pant leg up, revealing a long metal rod that disappears into his black boot. “Spent a lot of time bitching and relearning a few things. Shiro got me through some tough times.” Hunk lets go of his pants and claps his friend hard on the shoulder. “I was just an island boy when I left for the military, came back missing some pieces, and Shiro helped put me back together.”

“He's a good guy,” Lance says. Shiro doesn't know how someone he just met can say that about him, but Lance says it with such surety that Shiro wants to believe it.

Hunk hoists his drink. “To Shiro!” A few people shout around the bar, whether they know Shiro or just want an excuse to have another drink remaining a mystery. Hunk kicks his drink back and finishes it with a sigh of gusto. Shiro brings his to his lips, intending to just sip, but a hand lifts and tips the bottom of his glass, forcing him to drink the rest. When the hand lets up and allows him to bring the glass down, he finds Lance staring at him with his straw in his mouth, sucking at it. Shiro wants to drown himself in oasis eyes.

“Bartender, another round!” Hunk shouts, and Shiro know he's in trouble as Lance's tongue twines around the straw.

Shiro watches Lance work the bar as he shares drinks with Hunk and catches up with his old friend. Lance talks to anyone and everyone, and Shiro feels warm every time he hears the other man laugh, which is often. Hunk doesn't seem to mind too much that Shiro's eyes are more for his passenger, his grin as broad and easy as his island philosophies. 

Eventually the music starts playing, too loud and grainy over the crappy speakers, and the dance floor lights are just cheap party lights duct taped to the ceiling. Shiro watches Lance perk up and head to the dance floor, hips already shaking with the beat. The women flock with him, whether willingly or because he comes out to grab them by the hand and drag them out. Lance breathes life wherever he goes.

When the line dancing starts up, Lance makes a beeline for Shiro and steals his boots right off his feet. Shiro stares in shock while Hunk laughs, deep and hearty, and buys Shiro another round “just to keep your feet warm, buddy.” Shiro drinks deep as he watches Lance dance in worn brown boots too big for his feet, but he makes the best of it, managing not to trip as he moves.

Once the few line dancing songs are over, Lance returns to the bar, laughing as he gives Shiro back his boots. Sweat makes a slight sheen on his skin as he leans over the bar and orders another shot of spiced rum, shouting to be heard over the music.

Shiro gathers his courage. “You looked good out there,” he says. He loves the way Lance turns his head to look at him like he's the most important thing in the world, even though he knows that can't be true.

“I'd look even better with a hot dance partner wrapped around me,” Lance says back.

Shiro doesn't know what to say to that, freezes up. It's been a long, long time since someone showed this much interest in him. It didn't used to be a problem until he lost a limb, and then… Well, there just hadn't been a whole lot since then.

Someone presses up against his back, puffs hot breathing smelling of whiskey over his skin. “Dude, get out there and dance with him, you idiot!” Hunk whispers with intensity in his ear. “He's hot as hell; don't pass this chance up!”

Lance smirks up at Shiro as if he heard everything, which is impossible in the rowdy bar. His shot arrives and he downs it smoothly, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows. He slams the empty glass down on the bar and slides it back, then turns his body toward Shiro and looks at him expectantly. 

Shiro doesn't hesitate (and maybe the little shove from Hunk helps), and just the grin that Lance gives him is worth it alone. He doesn't know how to dance, but Lance guides him, and even though he sticks out like a sore thumb he has fun. Lance laughs, swaying and shimmying around Shiro's stiff body and Shiro smiles for him.

They go through a couple lively songs before a slower one plays and Shiro freezes again. Lance looks up at him, biting his lip, the most beautiful thing Shiro has ever seen, and he never thought he'd believe that of anyone standing in the Sunset Lounge. Lance takes the initiative once again, hands touching down on Shiro's chest, smoothing over it.

Shiro brings his hands up and settles them awkwardly on Lance's waist, touching down feather light at the hem of his shirt. He's unsure about how Lance feels about his prosthetic hand actually touching his skin. He doesn't want to risk too much, doesn't want to ruin this moment.

His passenger huffs at him, gives him a rueful smile. He grabs hold of Shiro's hands and guides them to the small of his back. Lance slides his hands up Shiro's arms until he loops his own around the back of Shiro's neck. He presses their bodies tight together, buries his face against Shiro's neck.

Shiro's heart beats faster and he feels lips curve against his collarbone as Lance hears it. They sway back and forth to a song where a man croons that he can't go on without someone, and Shiro begins to realize with fear that he might be starting to feel that way about Lance, who has made him feel more alive in a single day than he has in years.

As the song becomes harder, the singer's voice more desperate, the guitar more dirty, Lance pressed harder against him. Soft lips tickle across his collarbone and at the base of his neck. Shiro's fingers grow bold as they rub over the small of Lance's back, trailing through a sheen of sweat. His passenger murmurs happily, adds tongue to his lips’ ministrations, and Shiro is very aware that they are in public.

When the song dies down and the last chord fades, there's a moment of quiet between them before Lance pulls back. They stare at each other and then his passenger rocks onto the balls of his feet, lips so close to Shiro's as he asks, “You gonna take me back to your place now or what?”

Shiro has never moved so decisively outside of a battlefield before, but he does it there on the dance floor of the Sunset Lounge. He grabs Lance's hand and yanks him toward the exit, hurriedly weaving through the crowd. Lance laughs behind him and he can hear Hunk hollering something about settling his tab, but he's focused on one thing now and he figures he can do that in the morning.

They burst through the door and Shiro takes in the biggest lungful of air he can manage, so clean and fresh after breathing bar air for hours. The night is warm, but it feels almost cool in comparison to the relative sauna they just left. Lance pulls away from his grasp, skipping a bit, then turning on his heel to give Shiro the dirtiest smile he's ever seen. Then Lance turns and is off again, jogging across the gravel and Shiro gives chase. He feels like a boy again, young and carefree, a hand going up to keep his hat on his head as he hauls ass across the parking lot.

He almost catches up to Lance by the time they reach the rig. His passenger plasters himself against the side of it, just by the door, eyes hungry as he stares at Shiro. “You gonna take me for another ride, cowboy?” Lance asks, back arching as he bites his lip.

Shiro can't get the door open fast enough, hand fumbling at his keys. Meanwhile, Lance strips off his shirt, hands lingering over his head to show off the length of his body.

As soon as the door is unlocked, Shiro yanks it open, almost forgetting to remove his keys first in his haste. He holds it open for Lance, who smiles and goes to climb in, one hand on the bar when he looks back over his shoulder. “Mind givin’ me a little lift, cowboy?”

Shiro hesitates and then Lance wiggles his rump. Shiro exhales shakily as he gently places a hand on the curve of his passenger's ass and firmly boosts him up. He knows Lance doesn't need help, has seen him climb into the rig like he was born to do it, that he's just teasing him now. Lance makes a happy little moan that makes Shiro's cock chub up in his jeans.

Once Lance is in, Shiro can't follow fast enough. His passenger has tossed his sweaty shirt on his chair--and when did Shiro start to think of the passenger seat as Lance's?--and is already headed for the back of the cab. He pauses and Shiro’s heart thumps because he thinks maybe Lance is reconsidering having sex with a cripple like him.

But Lance just looks at him over his shoulder, teeth digging into his bottom lip before he looks forward again. Then he's lowering his shorts and Shiro stares so hard his eyes may just start to bleed. Inch by inch, Lance reveals the round curve of his ass, pausing once the waistband is nestled just below his buttocks, framing them on display. The only light in the cabin is from the moon and stars and the light pole at the edge of the lot, all casting bluish white light. Lance looks like the ethereal twin of the golden man bathed in the light of the sunset earlier, his skin taking on an eerie blue cast to it, all the dips and curves of him accented by intense shadow.

“Like what you see, cowboy?” Lance asks without even turning around. It's then that Shiro realizes he's breathing hard, panting like a dog in heat. He swears under his breath and Lance chuckles before bending to push his shorts down his legs.

It's a long trip and Shiro thinks he may have died and gone to heaven, and the gates are between Lance's legs. There's a lot of smooth skin and Shiro wants to touch every inch. Then Lance is straightening, kicking his feet free of sandals and shorts. He turns, spreading his arms and placing his hands on the headrests of the seats. “You're wearing an awful lot of clothes for someone who's about to get laid.”

Shiro's mouth goes as dry as the desert as Lance shows off his body with no shame. Everything about him is magic, and he's put a spell over his driver.

Shiro tries to get out of his clothes as fast as possible, fumbling along the way. He feels ashamed when he has to pull his shirt off, revealing all his multitude of shrapnel scars as he yanks the fabric down and off his prosthetic, but there's no judgment in Lance's eyes, only hunger. Shiro leaves his clothes where they lie (except for his hat, which h3 hangs up properly), uncaring of the mess for once or that anyone outside looking up can see his naked ass, and moves into Lance, who giggles in excitement as Shiro's hand comes to rest on his hip. His passenger grabs his prosthetic hand and places it on the other side, eyes as bold as you please, daring him. 

Their mouths finally collide and Shiro drinks him in like a man dying of thirst. Lance tastes like spiced rum and sweet grenadine, melts on his tongue like warm sugar. He moans so sweetly, naked body arching up against Shiro's own, and Shiro can't ignore the insistent press of his passenger's dick against his thigh.

Shiro finds his confidence then, hands more assertive on Lance's waist as he walks them into the back toward his bed. Lance's tongue swirls harder against his in appreciation of the manhandling. Once they're at the bed, Shiro eases Lance down like he's a delicate glass flower that will break under his touch. He covers Lance's body with his own, and though Lance is almost as tall as him, Shiro is far more bulky and broad of shoulder.

They make out a while longer, wet sounds filling the cabin as they maul each other's mouths until Shiro breaks away to bury his face against Lance's neck, inhaling sweat and musk. He kisses along Lance's neck, all the way up to his ear; he traces the shell of it with his tongue then sucks on the lobe. Lance shudders beneath him, arching up, cock jabbing pleasantly against Shiro's sac. It's apparently an erogenous zone and Shiro milks it for all he's worth, suckling at the soft flesh before dragging teeth over it.

Lance gasps and taps against Shiro's shoulder. “You keep doing that and I'm gonna come!” he says. Shiro barely manages to back off, the warning making him want to do it more, making him want to make Lance orgasm without even touching his dick.

A long leg runs back and forth against his as Lance murmurs, “I promised to give you a ride, didn't I? Let me get on top, cowboy.”

Shiro acquiesces and they do some awkward maneuvering on the small bed only meant for one, Shiro cursing as his prosthetic gets in the way. Lance settles on top of him, knees to either side of Shiro's hips, and Shiro thinks he looks perfect there.

Until Lance's fingers trail over the straps keeping the prosthetic in place. “Let's take this off, shall we?” Shiro lets out a shaky breath and Lance looks at him in concern. “Hey, did I say something wrong?”

It's only Shiro's own insecurities eating him alive. The only thing worse than Lance having to look at him with the prosthetic on is having him see Shiro without it, his scarred, ugly stump laid bare. He doesn't know if he's ready for that, but he knows that Lance has held no judgment so far.

He takes the leap of faith and stops Lance's hand just as it goes to pull away, encouraging it to undo the straps. Lance looks at him for a moment then turns his attention to the unfamiliar task. He removes the prosthetic with all the care in the world, looking Shiro in the eyes as he brushes a kiss over the fingers before setting it aside.

Shiro's stump twitches as he's flooded with nerves. Lance inspects it and then his fingers are touching gently, smoothing over scarred flesh that Shiro can't feel, up to his shoulder where he can, and then back down again. Lance leans over, eyes connecting with Shiro's before he presses a kiss against the gnarled flesh.

Shiro's breath catches as Lance continues to kiss his stump, fingers still caressing what's left of his bicep. Shiro wants to thank him, to treasure him, to kneel before him and weep at the tenderness he's being shown. Lance sits up after one last kiss and trails his fingers over Shiro's lips to tell him it's all okay. They share a kiss again, Shiro breaking it on a groan as Lance's hand squirms its way between them to grasp his cock.

“Where are your condoms at?” Lance asks softly as he lazily strokes Shiro's aching flesh up and down. It takes Shiro's mind a moment to process the question and then he stares at Lance with wide eyes. His passenger huffs a little laugh and raises a brow. “Look, I like you a lot, cowboy, but I'm not letting you raw dog me on the first date,” he says.

“I don't have any,” Shiro blurts out. Lance gives him a little frown and a skeptical look and Shiro realizes he thinks he's trying to weasel his way out of using one. “Condoms, I mean. Not diseases.” He blushes at the way that sounds and adds, “I mean, I don't have any diseases as far as I know.” Lance is looking at him with amusement all over his face and Shiro covers his own with a hand, mortified. “It's just...it's been a long time since I've…”

“Shh, that's okay,” Lance soothes, thumb pressing into the spongy flesh of the head of the dick in his hand. “Tell me you at least have lube.”

“Yes!” Shiro says louder than is necessary, pointing at a drawer. Lance leans forward and digs around in it till he finds his prize. He flicks the cap open, movements sure as he drizzles warm liquid over Shiro's cock, other hand spreading it around. Shiro presses his palm tight against Lance's hip, fingers curling against soft skin; his phantom arm tingles and it almost feels like his missing hand is there to caress the other hip.

Satisfied, Lance caps the lube and tosses it haphazardly on the ground. He angles his hips down, pressing his own dick along Shiro's, both hands wrapping around them. Shiro groans as Lance thrusts, rubbing their slippery cocks together.

It becomes a wet, squelching mess in Lance's hands and Shiro grunts every time Lance's cock catches on the corona of his head. Shiro's hand keeps his passenger steady as he thrusts with vigor, palm of one hand moving upward to rub hard at the head of Shiro's cock.

Lean thighs quiver against Shiro's sides, Lance panting hard. “C’mere,” Shiro murmurs, coaxing Lance to lay down against him, and his passenger buries his face against his neck. Shiro's strong hand moves to cup one of Lance's plump butt cheeks, fingers digging in as he pushes Lance down against him, arching up at the same time to drive his slick cock up. Lance moans and whimpers, breath muggy and hot against Shiro's neck.

Shiro rolls his hips upward, enjoying Lance's weight on top of him and the jab of his dick against his stomach. Shiro kneads the flesh in his hand as a hot tongue laps against his Adam's apple. They work like that for a few minutes, hot breath filling the nonexistent space between them as their slick bodies grind together.

When Lance starts making little desperate mewling noises, Shiro goes in for the kill. He turns his head, nuzzling into sweat-soaked brown hair, and takes Lance's earlobe between his lips, tongue flicking against it and then mouth sucking hard.

Lance bucks hard and cries out, moaning, “I'm coming, I'm coming, I'm coming!” against Shiro's feverish skin.

Shiro groans as he feels warm cum being spread across his stomach as they rock together. He tries to shove his hand between their bodies to grab his rock hard cock, needing just a little more to take him over the edge, but Lance bats his hand away, his own burrowing into the slick and sweaty mess.

The hand grabs hold of Shiro, tight and hot, the thumb mercilessly rubbing in circles over the squishy head and Shiro is gone. His head falls back and Lance sucks and licks ravenously at his Adam's apple as his hand works, knuckles digging into Shiro's stomach. His cock pulses in Lance's grip as waves of pleasure take him, each one more glorious than the last until he's spent.

They lay together for a while, a panting, shuddering mess, Lance's hand still awkwardly trapped between them. Shiro lifts his hand and runs his fingers through soft brunette hair, lays kisses on Lance's forehead, tasting his sweat. His passenger hums happily, foot running lazily over Shiro's leg.

Eventually they part as the sticky feeling becomes too uncomfortable. Lance lifts up and paws around for the dirty towel from earlier in the day, wiping himself off and then shushing Shiro's protests as he takes care of him. Somehow in their sated, addled state, they manage to arrange themselves for sleep, Shiro spooning around Lance, pushing him up tight against the wall, an arm and a leg wrapped around him. He sleeps better than he has in years.

\-----

Shiro wakes with a pounding headache at the base of his skull and a dry mouth. It takes him a moment to realize why it's odd that he's woken up alone.

He sits up abruptly, eyes locked on the empty space where Lance was when they fell asleep. His head whips around as he scans the cabin, but there's no sign of Lance, not even his clothes from the night before. Shiro bolts to the front, leaning against his chair with his arm. Lance's backpack is gone, and there on the dash is Shiro's open wallet.

Shiro doesn't think he could feel any more sick, the bitter truth staring him in the face sinking to the bottom of his stomach like a sack of rocks. He picks up his wallet, checks just in case, and confirms that what little cash he had is gone.

He fumbles his way into his driver's seat, sitting heavily, cradling his throbbing head. Lance is gone, run off who knows when to who knew where. Shiro feels like his soul has been rubbed raw with sandpaper. He sits like that for a while, wallowing in despair before there's a knock on his door.

He rushes to open it, praying that it's Lance, that it's all a mistake, but is disappointed. “Hunk,” he croaks out.

“Wow, nice to see you too, Shiro.”

Shiro rubs at his face, licks at dry lips. “Sorry. I’m just…” Hunk lifts a brow, waiting for him to continue. “Lance is gone.”

Hunk goes to say something then stops. “Oh.” He stares at Shiro for a moment. “You only knew him for a day, Shiro.”

“I know that!” Shiro snaps, then regrets it at the pained look on Hunk’s face. “Sorry. I know that. But he was…” Shiro thinks of a bright smile and sweet voice. “He was special.”

Hunk just nods. “Look, I gotta get going; I’m already behind, which means I know you are too. I just wanted to let you know I took care of your tab last night.”

“Thank you. I owe you one, brother.”

“And don’t think I’ll let you forget it!” Hunk gives him a casual salute. “Don’t be a stranger, okay?”

Shiro returns the salute and tries to muster up a smile. “Will do.” He watches Hunk make his way to his own semi, waves as Hunk honks when he pulls out, and then his friend is gone to continue on his own long trek. It hits Shiro then what a lonely life he’s living. He puts around for a bit, putting off his own departure as long as possible just in case, but finally he has to leave. He has a job to do.

He barely manages to brush his teeth, doesn’t bother shaving, a cardinal sin in his book. He straps on his prosthetic by himself as he has for years and hits the road. For the first time the stretch of highway doesn’t whisper possibilities to him; it seems cold and bleak, and Shiro has a hard time settling into the seat that used to cradle his body like an old friend.

An hour in, he sees him, thinks he’s a mirage, an affliction of the mind, and maybe he is; he’s driven Shiro crazy. He jerks the wheel, braking as fast as possible as he passes over the yellow line onto the shoulder of the road. The mirage continues walking on and Shiro honks the horn.

The mirage stops, but doesn’t look back. Shiro lays on the horn, leaning over the wheel in desperation, and finally he turns. Shiro trembles as his eyes take in the sharp chin and cheekbones, the miles of bronzed skin. It’s only then that he realizes Lance is wearing his black vest with the silver trim; he hadn’t even known it was missing.

Lance hesitates, goes to turn away, but Shiro lays on the horn again, long and hard. Their eyes lock and Lance finally gives in, walks toward the semi. Shiro trembles a bit as he disappears from sight again before the passenger door opens. They stare at each other a moment before Lance gives him a smile tinged with sadness. “Howdy, cowboy.”

Shiro’s hand tightens on the wheel. “You left,” he manages to say softly.

Lance winces, looks away before saying, “Shiro, I--”

“You left!” Shiro regrets the way the words burst out after the way Lance looks at him. “I’m sorry. I just…”

“I didn’t want to leave,” Lance says. Shiro stares at him, and his fingers tremble as he admits, “I wanted to stay with you. But I didn’t know how you felt about me.”

“Get in here,” Shiro demands gruffly, and Lance scrambles to comply. As soon as he’s in the passenger’s seat, Shiro feels the rightness of it, feels it all click into place. His eyes roam his passenger, taking it all in. He reaches out with his prosthetic hand, cups the other man’s cheek, feels his soul light up as Lance leans into the touch, looks at him so softly.

He leans over and crushes his lips against Lance’s, and the other man melts against him so sweetly. He takes what he wants and Lance lets him, lets him into his mouth and his heart. Shiro tastes joy, honey sweet, on Lance’s tongue. He doesn’t want to stop, but he knows they can’t stay like this forever. Still, he strokes Lance’s cheek, tries to hold on to the moment a little longer. Lance’s lips are full and shining and beautiful. “Stay with me,” Shiro murmurs, voice gruff, and Lance’s smile is like the brilliant sunrise.

Shiro reluctantly lets go, leaning back in his seat. He puts the semi in drive, but before he puts them back on the road, he cocks a brow at Lance. “You stole my money.”

“Borrowed,” Lance answers airily, unaffected by the look Shiro gives him.

“You didn’t know I would come after you.”

“I didn’t,” Lance says quietly. “But I hoped you would.” He props his dusty feet and worn sandals on the dash, making himself at home.

“You could have at least bought new shoes,” Shiro says.

“Well, I bought snacks, to make up for all of yours that I ate yesterday.” Lance pulls out bags of chips and jerky, along with a heap of candy bars.

“With my money.”

“Details, details,” Lance brushes the words off. “Besides, I got us something else even more essential.” Lance pulls out a blue box and Shiro’s eyes widen. Lance smirks as Shiro stares at the box of condoms with avarice in his eyes. “So you better get us to the next stop real quick, cowboy. Then I’ll return the favor and let you take me for a ride.”

Shiro didn’t need any more prompting. He hit the gas and pulled back onto the highway. The future looked bright with his passenger at his side.

**Author's Note:**

> Visit me at keirdark on tumblr for more fun and rambling. ;)


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